


an art or a science

by notbang



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e03 Josh Is a Liar, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notbang/pseuds/notbang
Summary: "To ruin a man, you have to go after what he loves most.""Video games.Not that. Okay."Rebecca doesn't stand Nathaniel up, and Nathaniel has another crack at giving Rebecca what she wants.
Relationships: Rebecca Bunch/Nathaniel Plimpton
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	an art or a science

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cori_the_bloody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/gifts).



> A somewhat serious take on a dumb joke I make every time I watch 3x02 which is 'AU where Nathaniel takes down the video game industry to avenge Rebecca'.

“Well, we’re here. Are you happy now? Nobody’s blowing anybody off, fly or otherwise. I’ll go up, I’ll sample his spaghetti sauce, and we’ll call it a day.”

Rebecca shuts off the ignition, feeling oddly defensive. It’s only eight thirteen—barely pushing the limits of her track record with punctuality, really.

All she gets is a grunt in return, followed by a snide, “That doesn’t sound very _appeasing_ if you ask me _._ ”

“Maybe if you had a better appreciation of figurative language, it would.” Caving under the glare she receives, she rolls her eyes and concedes. “Fine. We go in, we go out, we maybe engage in some heavy petting in lieu of dessert. I’m talking strictly hand stuff only. One hour, tops.” She casts a glance towards the unimpressed preteen currently sinking down, cross-armed in the passenger seat and purses her lips. “Forget I said any of that. Cover your ears. Wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Why am _I_ the one getting her mouth washed out?”

Rebecca sighs, throwing her hands up as she tips her head back against the seat in thinly veiled exasperation. “I don’t know—because then you’ll be too busy pulling funny faces and gagging at the gross taste to repeat any of what you just heard. Now, can I leave you in here unattended? Do I need to crack a window?”

“You _seriously_ think locking me in the car is going to keep your anxiety at bay?”

“Well, I figure in the very least it’ll give me some kind of a head start. Can’t hurt a girl to try, right?”

Reaching into the back seat to retrieve the haphazardly folded shirt she’d tossed in there on the drive over, Rebecca gives herself a quick once-over in the rearview before reluctantly making her way towards the lobby of Nathaniel’s building.

It takes him longer to answer her knock than she’s expecting, and in the extra stretch of seconds she nearly convinces herself she’s waited long enough to justify leaving. Before she can redirect her inexplicable nervous energy from fidgeting into fleeing, though, the door swings open to reveal Nathaniel, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and despite having seen him naked only a few nights before she finds herself strangely captivated by this new business-casual bare expanse of exposed forearms. 

“Rebecca,” he says, and she thinks it sounds like he’s sighing it in relief, almost. Like he hadn’t expected her to show.

“Hi. I, uh… this is yours.” She fingers one of the gunmetal buttons on his dress shirt before thrusting it it towards him. 

“Oh. Thank you.”

His gaze flits up from the white bundle in his hands to sashay up the length of her, and she can see it written across his features that he’s remembering what it looked like wrapped around her instead.

Neck flushing hot, she hikes her purse further up onto her shoulder and clears her throat. “Look, Nathaniel. The other night was fun, and I appreciate you helping me out, but I’ve got a lot going on right now, and I just really think we should avoid making this into something it’s—sorry, what is all this?” 

It occurs to her, somewhat belatedly, that his previously tending-towards-Spartan apartment is suddenly overrun with what appears to be stacks of shipping crates. Beyond the rows of boxes, in front of his black leather sofa, she can just make out a small wooden table that wasn’t there before either, unmistakably candlelit and set for two.

Nathaniel examines his nail beds, exuding exaggerated nonchalance. “Hm? Oh, these? Video games.”

Tearing her gaze away from the surprisingly feminine floral centrepiece— _did he pick that out himself?_ she wonders—she blinks at him, still in need of further elucidation. “Video games,” she repeats.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You—Productivity Plimpton the third—play video games,” she says, dubiously, before narrowing her eyes into a suspicious squint. “Do you even own a TV?”

He tilts his head, his expression both guarded and curious, as if confused by her own confusion. “They’re not for me,” he says slowly.

While some spiralling-out-of-control part of her is still desperate to say her piece and leave, she’s nothing if not easily distracted; if Nathaniel’s being deliberately obtuse she’s willingly falling for it, hook, line and frustrated sinker.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What, then? You doing all your company Christmas shopping in one hit? I’ll just stick to a good old fashioned bonus, but thanks anyway, I guess?”

Nathaniel barks out a mocking laugh. “I’m not sure what exactly about disappearing for two weeks of unapproved leave preceded by what was already months of questionable workplace attendance makes you think you’re eligible for a bonus of any description, but no.”

“Uh, maybe the tens of thousands of dollars that I make for the firm every month with my eyes closed,” she lobbies back, making sure to tack on a performative eye-roll for good measure.

“Hmm. Which might be commendable, were it not for the strictly eyes-open policy I had put in place upon my arrival.”

It’s shifting dangerously close to too-familiar territory, their barbed back and forth, and in a desperate effort to reclaim some unspoken upper ground she’s in the middle of rehashing her potential excuses with which to blow him off when he continues on, unprompted.

“I called in a favour with an old law school buddy of mine who convinced a client of his to file a lawsuit against the studio of Josh’s favourite franchise, _Sins of the Fleshless,_ for copyright infringement. The servers for the online multiplayer have been suspended and the upcoming release of the next instalment is indefinitely delayed.”

Hearing Josh’s name sends an involuntary jerk through her, incomprehension creeping with dread. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“ _Zomber Stomper II: the Quick and the Dead_ proved more of a challenge, since it’s already hit the shelves, but I was able to pull some strings and secure every physical copy on the West Coast. George should be finishing up at a Buy More in Burbank as we speak.”

It’s his tone, more than anything, that eventually sparks recognition—taking her back to being sprawled out alongside him in his bed, in the very shirt she’d just returned to him, legs tangled together as he recounted their villainous exploits for her with a seductive drawl. 

She raises her eyebrows, finally catching on and, frankly, caught more than a little off-guard. “Wow. That’s…”

“Evil?” he offers, stuffing his hands into his pockets and leaning back to perch on the arm of his couch.

“Yeah,” she says with a surprised laugh. “Yeah, kinda.”

It _is_ the perfect crime, in a way—sure, it doesn’t humiliate Josh or force him to reckon with the ways he’s wronged her, but it’s deliciously petty whilst being simultaneously harmless and doesn’t make her feel how she felt watching Josh’s friends turn on him in the face of her lies. Doesn’t make her feel like an infectious black disease, swallowing and rotting everything she touches.

“Why, though? You already held up your end of the deal. I wasn’t expecting…”

For a brief moment, something flinches across his face, so quick she almost doesn’t catch it. As it is, she doesn’t want to interrogate what it might mean. Doesn’t have it in her. Not now.

Nathaniel nods. “Because you were right.”

“I was? About what?”

“I think we can both agree that my original plan was… excessive,” he decides on, suddenly intent on picking at some invisible lint on his slacks. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I got carried away.”

Her voice goes soft and small, heady with the memory of his words at the masquerade. “Because you were busy thinking about me?”

“I thought that much was obvious. I was trying to… impress you, I suppose?” he admits with obvious chagrin. He clears his throat. “But you didn’t like my plan, so I regrouped, and went with yours.”

“Oh,” she says, for lack of anything else, and lets them sit with that for a second before she goes on to ask, “What are you going to do with all this stuff?”

He shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “I’m certainly open to suggestions.”

She thinks back to the aftermath of Jayma’s wedding, of Josh sleeping on her couch and eating her food and playing Playstation and giving her _nothing_ , just like their wedding day, and it helps her turn her anger at him back into something tangible and real.

“Can I break one?” she blurts out after a moment. Off Nathaniel’s confused look she elaborates, “I’ve kind of just always wanted to take one of those shiny discs and like… snap ‘em right in half, y’know?”

Wryness twisting at his mouth, he makes a _be my guest_ gesture towards the closest pile.

Unearthing a case from the nest of shredded cardboard, she traces her fingernails along the seam of the shrink plastic seal until they snag and rip, giving way with a gratifying tear. It takes more force than expected to pop open, setting the disc loose at the same time when it finally gives way, for a split second worrying her that she’s scratched it. The irony of her concern catches up with her as she slides it out, setting the case back down on top of the others.

 _DEAD END_ is emblazoned across the front in a dripping, slimy font.

All too aware of Nathaniel’s gaze on her, she winces as she applies pressure to the edges, sucking in a breath when it succumbs, yielding to the torsion with a fulfilling crack.

“Oh,” she says, quietly. “That felt good. Satisfying, even.”

She doesn’t think she’s imagining it, the way Nathaniel’s eyes soften, and the corners of his mouth uptick the tiniest, most tentative amount.

Despite the absurdity inherently obvious to her even as she’s doing it, she carefully places the two pieces back inside the case, upside down, so she can regard the obfuscation of her reflection in the shards.

“Want to do it again?” Nathaniel offers. “I think I have some spares.”

A laugh bursts out of her at that, too loud and too hollow. She swallows it back inside, worried that if she lets too much of what she’s feeling out unchecked she won’t be able to stop herself unravelling with it as it goes.

She wishes all the discs could fuse together to create one giant disc that she could hack at with the rugged blade of her emotions—to shatter it into the million shards she feels like she’s currently comprised of. Wishes she could set them all on fire and watch her mirror image burn.

Instead, she squeezes an arm around herself and swallows, feeling suddenly faint. “You did all this knowing Josh was at a convent? Where he probably doesn’t even have wifi, let alone access to an Xbox?”

“Actually, Josh’s preferred platform is Playstation,” Nathaniel says, lips twitching; oblivious, smug. “I did my research. And he’s back in town, right? As of today? I assumed you knew.”

Rebecca stiffens. Of course _she_ knew that—but how did _Nathaniel_ know that? And how much research, exactly, had he done? Did he know everything?

“I put a Google alert on Josh’s social media accounts,” he explains, ignorant to her alarm. “He tweeted someone named smootharmedsurfer89 on the drive home, telling him to make sure his controller was charged. I’ll have you know, I’m very thorough.” He pauses to look her in the eye, voice dripping with deliberation when he adds, “Besides, I’m always more than prepared to play the long con if need be.” 

His words curl around her, warm and wanting, and she has to bite her tongue against assuring him she knows exactly just how _thorough_ he can be.

It had been fun, playing secret mission with him, or as fun as she was currently capable of having, all things considered. She’s been preoccupied all week, but now her skin hums with the memory of a very specific kind of preoccupation, so difficult to push away standing in the middle of an apartment that’s so distractingly _bed._

The scent of something garlic and tomato-y wafts out from the kitchen, then, and her stomach gurgles its approval, the sound loud and unflattering in the small space. Too agitated to be appropriately mortified, she presses an absent palm against her belly, dully registering hunger below the gaping chasm of panic that’s been ripping steadily open inside of her since she confronted Josh at the church. She realises she can’t remember the last time she ate.

Nathaniel must hear it because he rushes to pull a chair back for her at the table, suavity suddenly all but gone, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy and embarrassingly eager to the point it reminds her of herself so much it hurts, almost, to look at him.

In spite of herself, she’s seconds away from giving in when her phone chirrups and vibrates in her hand, and the warm, glowy feeling that had been creeping over her vanishes, leaving a renewed spike of panic in its wake.

“I’m sorry,” she says, scrunching her eyes shut against the onslaught of accompanying nausea. “I have to go.”

“But you just got here,” he protests, frowning. “Dinner’s almost—”

She’s already backing away, forgetting about the boxes lining the entranceway and toppling a stack of them, upending the cases on the floor. One of them crunches under her heel, clear plastic cracking, and she grabs onto the wall to right herself when she wobbles, waving her phone at him as if to ward him away when he steps forward to help her. “Shit. Sorry. I’m so sorry. I just… I just remembered I kind of left a small child in my car, and there’s this message from Paula, and I can’t do this now, and I just have to go. I really do. Dinner smells amazing and you are being… disconcertingly nice to me? And… I’ll call you, text you, shoot you an email, or something, because I have to—I have to go.”

Fumbling with the lock, she doesn’t even spare a glance for her younger self, sent tumbling backwards from her precarious position, skulking outside with an ear pressed to the door. Ignoring Nathaniel’s confused attempts to call her back she takes the stairs two at a time, already unsteady on her feet and nearly breaking her neck several times in the process.

She texts Paula from the car.

_Any updates on the case? Asking for an over-invested friend._

She frowns at the reflection of Nathaniel’s apartment building in the rearview as she pulls away.


End file.
